On Reaping and Sowing

It was like a mantra as I was growing up:  "Just wait until you have kids of your own....".  This was not a flattering prediction of my promising future as a parent.  No, this was a stark warning that the little snippet of DNA responsible for my errant ways would likely find their way into my own living version of "Rosemary's Baby" (and for those of you who don't know who that delightful curmudgeon was, I suggest an addition to your Netflix queue).  My transgressions, as is usual for the truly evil, started at birth.  I took the opportunity to pee on the nurse as my first act on this earth.  I then refused to sleep through the night for the next 8 months; the contrast to my angelic older sister who had slept through the night from 2 weeks of age was obvious to the most casual observer.  Walking was not on my list of priorities until almost 2 years of age and then I insisted on walking on the top of my knuckled toes, painful as this seems in hindsight.  It was pondered whether I would ever speak as I held my tongue until almost 3 years of age; then it was pondered whether I would ever stop (and for some, the pondering continues...).  You get the picture.  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

As the biblical writers would say, "And so it came to pass, Jen the Troubled begat a baby girl."  She is, of course, the center of my universe and holds the key to my heart, BUT...I see hints of things to come.  She began her life rather tentatively but has been picking up steam like a runaway train (which happens to have my name on its steel grill).  She doesn't just cry; she screams loud enough to violate the local noise ordinance.  When tempted this morning with a toy that she wasn't in the mood for?  Death and decapitation for the unfortunate stuffed duck.   (A bit of exaggeration given her tiny hands and lack of teeth, but she did gum him up pretty good before chucking him across the room; her intentions for destruction were clear).  And she doesn't just fill a diaper:  up and over and through the seams, to mama's lap we go.    My parents prediction about offspring revenge is coming true:  I don't believe for a minute in mere coincidence that "diaper" spelled backward is "repaid". 

So I am already thinking ahead with trepidation to the teen years.  If my antics as a teenager are any indication of things to come, then perhaps I should buy extra life insurance because she will certainly be the death of me.  Not that I did anything criminal (at least not that I was charged with), but my teenaged self could best be described as a jagged bundle of bad juju with frizzy hair and acne.  Eventually I grew out of everything but the frizzy hair, but not in time to spare my parents' sanity.  Hence the "Wait until you have kids...." curse. 

Don't get me wrong.  I am not feeling punished by the presence of my little girl, just the opposite.  But she does have the double whammy of being my kid in combination with being a PK (preacher's kid) which guarantees a wild ride for all involved.  But what was I going to do with these years anyways besides enjoy my AARP discount and search for the perfect denture cream? So, no worries.  My new mantra, again quoting the biblical writers, could become, "Be not afraid."  (Of course, the Bible had a very pregnant woman riding a  donkey, a baby floating down the river in a basket, and a newborn sleeping in a feed trough.  With their history of child-endangerment, perhaps I should find a new source for child-rearing wisdom. I'm just saying.)

Anyways, in response to my parents' dire warnings,  I am glad to say that the day is here, I have a kid of my own.  I've trained for this moment for 43 years.   Bring it on, Izzy!